


aeschyne

by shslducktective



Series: "king and lionheart" [3]
Category: Fate/Zero, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms
Genre: Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Masturbation, No Plot/Plotless, Other, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-23 19:42:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15613611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shslducktective/pseuds/shslducktective
Summary: lord el-melloi ii is a sad mess





	aeschyne

**Author's Note:**

> i didn't want this to be the first fanfic i posted in the f/z tag since it's kind of a vent but i guess it's like that sometimes. i'm currently working on a team rider PWP that's much less angsty than this and a lengthy gen fanfic about waver's life after the war but who knows if i'll ever finish either. 
> 
> enjoy.

Despite all the rumors about the affectionately nicknamed “Professor Charisma” and his mysterious love life, Lord El-Melloi II hadn't experienced a single sexual encounter since he was nineteen years old. He was twenty-nine now, and he had already accepted that he was fated to live the rest of his life as a lonely bachelor. Unless a miracle were to happen, of course. But the Twelth Lord of the Clock Tower knew better than to believe that more than one miracle could ever affect a mage with a normal lifespan — even a talented mage, which he was not. He was used to the not-so-subtle questions about his relationship status from students and coworkers alike, used to the cell phone numbers scrawled onto the corners of homework assignments, and used to the flirtatious emails from mages he could barely remember working with. He was used to the concerned remarks from his closest students about finding a special someone to ease his loneliness, used to the ache in his chest whenever he saw happy couples out and about, used to the fog of despair in the back of his mind constantly posing the question, “ _What the hell are you doing with your life_?”

He was used to it all, and he was just as used to ignoring it all. However, there were some things that even the professor just couldn't ignore.

There was nothing romantic or arousing about the state of Lord El-Melloi II’s apartment room to put him in such a mood. In fact, the empty bags of chips and bottles of vodka strewn about the floor had quite the opposite effect on the atmosphere. The professor himself had simply been lying on the couch, a half-empty cup of instant ramen in one hand and a video game console in the other, when it struck him. Nevermind the crumbs nestled into the couch’s leather folds or the fact that the professor hadn't showered in half a week.

As El-Melloi II set his unfinished dinner and gaming console on the coffee table beside the couch, he figured that this would be over quickly. With his pants long abandoned in the corner of the room, he tugged his boxers down low enough to expose his semi-hard cock. This wasn't out of the ordinary. Just a couple minutes of jerking it out would normally do the trick, and whatever didn't land on his hand would wash off in the shower later. However, it didn't take the professor long to realize that the usual routine of one hand on his cock and one hand on his hips wouldn't be enough. The palm of his hand felt raw and dry against the most sensitive part of his skin, and his entire body burned with the desire for something more.

Groaning under his breath, the frustrated professor relented and peeled himself off the couch to gather what he needed. He cursed when his shin bumped into the edge of the coffee table, and the impact left him with a dull pain as he scrambled to find the lube and his favorite pillow. Once he remembered that he had stored them away in a box underneath the bed he never used, he figured that he might as well go all out. He was already on his feet, after all.

After a few seconds of skimming through his closet, the professor located the special thing he had been looking for — his favorite article of clothing, his servant’s Admirable Grand Tactics t-shirt. Even though he wore an identical t-shirt nearly every day once he returned home from work, he had never dared to wear that particular one. At first, he had told himself that Rider's shirt was simply too big and that it was only sensible to wear the smaller shirt, the one his idiotic servant had purchased for the professor's younger self in hopes of convincing him to play along with his silly video game. Excuses aside, the truth was that El-Melloi II couldn't bear to alter one of the only mementos he owned of the man he had loved, the man he _loved_ , the man who had died and left him behind in this world to experience its cruel beauty alone. He couldn't bear to taint the fabric with his own sweat and tears, to wash away the smallest piece of evidence that a king had once lived in his presence as if they were equals, to destroy the scent of spice and the faint traces of mana left behind by the man he so longed to hold for forever and a day.

The t-shirt had been sealed in a ziplock bag and wrapped in several layers of plastic bags. Carelessly tossing the plastic onto the floor, El-Melloi II uncovered the sentimental article of clothing and pressed his face into the cotton folds. The last time he’d sealed it away had been months ago. Back then, he hadn't intended to uncover it for a while, but now seemed like a good time. It would only be for a few minutes, or so he told himself. It would be fine.

With his favorite pillow under his left arm, a bottle of lube in his left hand, and his right hand holding his Rider's t-shirt against the side of his face, the professor made his way back to the couch. He turned off the television, silencing whatever video game soundtrack had been playing, tossed his bottle of lube onto the couch, dusted off the leather cushions, kicked his boxers down to his ankles, and folded his pillow into a mound before pressing it into the cushions. Everything was going according to plan. With his torso facing the front of the couch, he stepped out of his boxers, sunk into the leather cushions, and straddled the pillow, shifting all of his body weight to his knees. Reluctant to let go of his treasured t-shirt, he hesitated before hanging said article of clothing over the back of the couch so he could remove his own tank top. With the tank top over his head, he tossed it onto the ground next to his underwear and let out a labored sigh.

Lord El-Melloi II of the Clock Tower was undoubtedly a grown man with at least a sliver of sexual experience, but his heartbeat still raced every time he did something like this. His fingers felt cold against his own skin, his forehead was already starting to bead with sweat, and his thoughts were racing through a cloudy haze of lust and the anxiety of being alone. Wiping his brow and brushing strands of greasy hair out of his face with his left hand, the professor used his free hand to bring the Admirable Grand Tactics t-shirt back to his face. With the fabric pressed against his nose, he inhaled sharply. The smell of saffron and cinnamon and sweat and sand was enough to calm his nerves and clear his mind.

For the first time that day, the professor smiled softly. He allowed his left hand to drag along his body, palming his chest and squeezing his sides the way his servant did to him over a decade ago. His skin was clammy and sweaty from going so long without a shower, but he couldn't find it in him to care. Before his hand met the base of his cock, he stopped to reach for the lube. Fumbling to open it single-handedly, he turned his face away from the shirt in his other hand and whispered a curse. The plastic cap almost nicked the side of his index finger, but he was eventually able to open the bottle and squeeze a few drops of cold lube onto his lower abdomen. The shocking sensation made the professor swear even louder. After dropping the unclosed bottle of lube back onto the couch, he smeared the cold drops of lube over the palm of his hand in an attempt to warm it before it actually touched his cock. For all he cared, he would deal with any lube that leaked out of the open bottle and onto the cushions later.

Once the lube was warm enough, the professor slid his palm down to the base of his semi-hard erection and circled fingers around its rather unimpressive girth. With his hand curled into a tight fist, he began to slick his erection from base to tip, taking pleasure in the smooth friction his body craved. Of course, it wasn't enough for his mind. No matter how much lube he used or what position he took, his left hand still felt like nothing more than his own left hand, and his small apartment room still lacked the laughter and grunting of the only person he could ever imagine beneath him.

It wasn't enough. It would never be enough, but this desperate attempt at remembering what sex with _him_ felt like was all Waver Velvet knew he would ever have. With a barely audible whimper of need and longing, the professor inhaled into the fabric his king’s old t-shirt once again, straining to envision memories that had morphed into fantasy over the years: the sound of Rider chuckling with amusement as he prepared his inexperienced young master to lose his virginity, the slight warmth of pink on Rider’s cheeks that betrayed his confident expression as he touched his master's cock, the patience Rider demonstrated as the professor's pathetically clumsy younger self struggled to take the dominant role, and the curious sparkle in Rider's eyes as he gave such an undeserving brat the honor of penetrating him for the first time.

El-Melloi II wanted more. He needed so much more, but all he had to replace his left hand was the pillow mound that he had stuffed between his knees. Positioning the tip of his cock to fit into the pillow’s fold, he bit his lip and slowly thrusted forward. It wasn't Rider; it wasn't anything like Rider, but it was enough to please his body just a little more. Squeezing his eyelids shut, he tried to picture his king underneath him, groaning with satisfaction and pleasure that the professor could only dream of making an ancient conqueror feel. He imagined weathered palms kneading into his chest and mimicked the action with the smooth skin of his own left palm, knowing in the back of his mind that his own small hands and slender fingers could never imitate Rider’s calloused grip. With each and every breath, the professor found it harder and harder to ignore the fact that everything in his mind was probably nothing more than a pipe dream. He would never see Rider again. Even if he were somehow able to bring Rider back from the Throne of Heroes, the chance of Rider remembering him was almost non-existent. There was no way Rider would ever hold him again, touch him again, lie beneath him again. That would take a miracle, and Waver Velvet knew damn well that he had already experienced the first and last miracle of his life. The thought was enough to bring tears to the corners of his eyes, but he continued thrust into the pillow with his eyelids sealed shut. He had started this, and he was going to ride it out until the climax.

“Ra… Rider…” the professor moaned, no longer caring how pathetic and futile his situation had become. “Rider, I need you.”

As if something or someone had answered his call, El-Melloi II was suddenly reminded of the painting in front of him, hanging above his bookshelf and within his field of vision if he simply lifted his head. The painting, of course, was a painting of _him_ , and the reminder that it had been hanging there the whole time struck the professor with a sense of shame. “ _What would Rider think if he saw me in such a disgusting state?_ ” the professor wondered, and that was enough to send him over the edge. Pushing all fear and embarrassment aside, the thought of his king looking down on him as he strained so desperately for release was exactly the kind of thought El-Melloi II needed to curb his longing. With his eyes glued to the painted visage of Iskandar in all his glory, he thrusted as quickly as he could until he finally found his release. It came over him like a rainy day with a cloudless sky — wet and unexpected, confusing and unpleasantly hot, clammy enough to cause discomfort. With cum spilled onto the pillow and smeared around his retracting cock, the professor collapsed sideways onto the couch and buried his face in the cushions, struggling to clear his mind of everything that had just happened.

“Rider, I'm sorry…” the exhausted El-Melloi II wept as waves of guilt washed over him. His pillow remained compressed between his legs, and Rider's Admirable Grand Tactics shirt had somehow ended up scrunched into a ball in his fist. He was crying now, enough to make the side of his face feel warm and slippery against the leather cushions. He was supposed to be Iskandar's honorable retainer, but his most recent actions were those of a disgrace. How shameful. At this rate, he would never be good enough to be worthy of his title. Not if he continued to disrespect the memory of his king this way.

His only comfort was that none of it mattered. After all, Rider would never be able to know.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading. i'm very active on twitter @shslducktective so follow me for lots of waverposting and the occasional fanart.


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